


Carmilla!

by Daastan_Go



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Brotherhood, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Erotica, F/M, Family, Family Drama, Friendship, God Complex, Horror, Language, Love at First Sight, Lust, Lust at First Sight, Moral Ambiguity, Moral Dilemmas, Morbid, Mystery, Mysticism, Oral Sex, Other, Romance, Sex, Sister-Sister Relationship, Sisters, Suspense, Tragedy, Uchiha Massacre, Unrequited Lust, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 00:22:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20330965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daastan_Go/pseuds/Daastan_Go
Summary: At the Valley of the End, Naruto perishes and Sasuke triumphs. Now, five years after the Fourth Shinobi War, Hanabi and Sakura must strengthen a resistance alliance and bring down the budding deity, Uchiha Sasuke, before he assimilates all chakra.





	Carmilla!

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Naruto and all its characters are Kishimoto's legal property. I'm not making any money off this story; however, all the Original Characters, Original Plot-lines, and Original Themes are my own.

**Part I**: The Reapers

# # # # # #

Another streak of blood diluted and sailed away. Carmilla—out in the storm, she saw herself in the mould of a great warrior: one with a great big cloak billowing at the back, trimmed winter furs, and a sturdy hand on the giant sword’s ornamented pommel, who stood before a great valley whose waters shone in the effulgent light.

A wind, like a brush of silk, crossed her face, lifted her long hair, and swirled through tall grass, which was all soggy and sodden after the battle—dappled red with a congealing liquid that smelt awful.

A light rain outlined her girl-ish form underneath the thinnest garments: she had wiry muscles, strong but thin arms, a young face set in a serious frown. She meant business when she had set her heart on the rebels to free the lands from the Young Deity that was still but a bud that had yet not blossomed.

It was still dusk, and transparent mist's tinge had long since darkened to lead by her feet. She stood on low grounds, beneath the shadows of the tall, tall peaks that hid another forest behind their smooth façades.

She jumped and landed beyond this stream’s yawning waters, sight set on the High Mountains, _The Sacred Twins_, that shut out the world beyond. The sacred land, Carmilla (with fruits succulent and airs sweet), beyond was bordered by a stripe of lush verdure and streams shivered along the sides of the lovely edifice, which, as some believers claimed, appeared in a strange hue to the monks' eyes.

There, the believers made an obeisance before their benevolent Lord, still ripening deep inside a pearlescent substance. He had alighted upon their mountains, and when he exuded a hue so sweet, every light was inferior in brilliance; and when the light shone in their eyes, they had set their foreheads to the grounds in adoration—cast their souls at the shores of his divinity.

Yet trouble was always afoot, and deities were made by spilling blood of Men, good men. Naruto was lost, killed by this man to become Kami! Her sister had been driven to the last verges of her sanity. The world went silent and chakra flowed in obedience, like his devout monks, to conjoin at a single spot inside his treacherous body, which still awaited a divine metamorphosis to set it free from its morals coils.

So Konoha Men plotted in silence, lest their hopes for glory would bewilder change. They wanted good men and better women to halt the germinating Lord, coveted by his monks, nuns, too. Someone who possessed a keen sight, a steady foot on the brink of precipices, and a heart that burnt with courage—that was all her Leaf needed.

Now, she ran, eastbound to reach the border in time. The deity had granted his monks with chakra strong. They were . . . impossible to defeat, to put down; she was all that was left of her platoon of foolhardy men and women. Swords fell, spears went through and they went down without a whisper. At least, their deaths had been quick . . .

Beside her, chakra-trails ran towards the mountains upon air as though dove’s plumes. He had been gathering it all up for the last five years, and during this course of change, she grew from a young 'un to a budding woman. How time changed—how things changed. Sakura had wept at the foot of Naruto's grave. He died, a faint smile on his face, a prayer on his lips that told of his love for the boy who had been a brother in another life: the young Uchiha had not celebrated his victory.

That was what her father told her; but he, too, went away and never returned. The monks got him or the Reapers. No one knew. He . . . never returned; so she said her farewells at the river and lit a paper lantern, with his name, on the water. Glowing, it floated away—to somewhere—whilst it bore his name.

An emotion sparked in her eyes, and she crossed the distance with the ferocity of her vision. There, just beneath the bowing trees' refuge, lay the dead men. He had got them here, too! She halted, eyes transfixed to the tall ones. They stood over her, and she felt mocked!

"Uchiha Sasuke . . ." she whispered, and her eyes lit-up like spirits burning in Yomi’s lost fires. It was not a foreign emotion she experienced. No, it was anger, a raw anger that went in deep and slow. The aching hurt never went away. She had seen many of her men fall in these past few years.

Liberation. Revolution. Absolution. He had spoken the words and swore by his brother's grave. Sakura had told her in hysterics. She did not know what to believe—who to believe. They were all mad, hope-less, future-less.

Men told tales of him, and his brother, an evil seed who devoured them all like a Reaper. He came to them in the dark, spilt blood, blest none—a terrible fate to befall the young, who died upon the blade, some still suckled teat when he got to them.

"Hanabi, you're too young—stay and hide with me!" Hinata had whispered.

And, may Kami set her father's soul free, he died with a purpose in heart, and he had died fighting. It was a son's duty to avenge his father; but Hiashi had no son. They said that Hanabi was as good as any, and she was! She was a sparkle of fire in the night sky. She would do what her brother would have done.

And so she had taken up the sword, gird up her loins for the battle for she would strike at his heart, liberate the chakra, end him before he rose out of his shell to reign over them all.

She stopped, watching as lights went away from the peaks to gather in his breast. Darkness descended: murmurs of Reapers rose into the air. They had come out in search of prey, and they struck quick and soundless. Wind crossed her face, and she looked back at the advancing darkness one last time before she ran off towards the dipping sun . . .

# # # # # #

Anon, the dark was at Hanabi's heels. Wind that swept round the perpendicular peaks gave a moaning like a hurt babe; and her ears were glutted with the holy land's music, eyes ravished with night's shades. She had to reach the temple beyond the small hillocks.

Horrific figures came unbidden amidst the fog and mist. They assaulted men who did not remain patient at the sight of their miens that excited terror in their breasts; they possessed lineaments most strange: a beautiful edifice, of a man, that contorted to gain a terrible countenance—one which a crow possessed.

The eyeless heads crowned the strange bodies, with contortions stranger—neither man nor beast. Sakura had told her that the Reaper, before it struck Men down with its deadly beak and feasted upon their still-living bodies, possessed the face of the Lord's brother. She did not understand that a Lord with no heart had love in him (love for a brother).

Hanabi let herself down into the stream and saw the clear water by her feet dirl. The whispers followed in search of the sound she had made, and if she made too loud a noise, her death would pay the forfeit of her error. The night winds, from mountains tall, blew a mixture of uncertain sounds down into the quiet valley, and her noise was merged into this chaos of sounds.

Fog effaced the trail from the leaves-covered ground, and she had little choice but to use her clan's eyes to produce effects in her vision. Crackle-crackle-crackle she went, crushing autumn’s signs beneath her feet. The whispers from Reapers rose and swelled, saluting her with sounds that made certain her isolation in this place at the foot of the mountains.

The crows had not yet penetrated the last defenses of their stronghold. They went back into the trees when the sun came up, as if to slumber. Men had cut down whole forests in search of the lovely creatures with faces awful, but found no trace of them—a bit of black sludge got trapped underneath their fingernails, and it had to be picked out and scrapped clean.

Yet the trees grew tall and young come morning—always. The Men brought them down over and over again in terror, signs of toil glistening on their brows in the rays, but each time they grew with fierceness, bearing fruits succulent and flowers lovely that defied autumn, defied nature. It was mad—everything had gone mad!

A moist, sweet air had spread around that forest, and word reached the monks; and a throng of them appeared at the foot of the mighty mountains with great height that shed a melancholic gloom upon the waters; and there he lay sepulchered on the pebbled shores—his form extended on the dispersing droplets, hands resting on his breast, features, which rebirth had engraved, with signs of godhood.

There, they all made an obeisance, chanted hymns as he lay in a slumber too deep, with eyeless Reapers watching his countenance with aggrieved expressions. His brother had come adown and stood by the foot of his sibling's watery grave; he dwelt in his breast still—_always!_

And they had named that place _Carmilla!_, taken him up the broken stairs to keep him safe from the evils of this world as he grew in his radiant shell to be birthed on the shores of this world. They would shed tears at his birth—sing songs upon his arrival, for his birth was nigh!

Hanabi slowed down her run when the whispering grew near. They were sniffing her scent in the air. The night's air, cold in her lungs, wafted up leaves; and before she could determine the course of her proceedings, a black mass ascended before her from the obscured ground. It kept rising till it was more than a towering man's height.

She stopped, breath ceasing in her lungs. She watched, eyes fearful, the thing that stood before her, all imposing in stature. It hath no eyes! None! Empty sockets adorned a face so lovely, which wore a mournful expression upon its countenance.

Her body trembled at the sight of it (_him?_), and he could sense her girl-ish fear. His neck escalated, like a crow’s, and he sucked in a breath so loud that she felt the disturbance vibrate in her skin. The vapours of her scent crawled up his nostrils, and he drew in sputtering breaths again.

In the dark, his neck was a projecting pillar, face white on the changing body. Feathers grew thicker from his skin, and the arms, which wore the wings like sleeves, extended in her direction—so did his beak!

Sending a lighting fast signal through her limbs, her nerves compelled her body to respond to the threat. She sprung back towards the light that still had some strength left in it, but the shadows behind her had darkened into Reapers.

Hanabi did not have time to look behind her when a break descended with a bone-crushing force to penetrate stones by her feet. She had slinked away just in time to avoid a blow that would have felled a giant beast. Angry, the crow let out a caw so loud that it shattered the calm of this place; and the air vibrated with answers of many.

The Reaper cawed, still shewing traces of _His_ brother's face upon the ghastly visage, recoiled its neck to unleash a blow to her breast. She unsheathed her sword and poised for a strike, which she aimed at his heart. It thrummed in his breast—an odd thing made of black sludge; and when the blow came, she parried and ran him through with her sword.

He went still, and his face reverted back to that of a man. His features relegated sorrow, his eyes locked upon the blade lodged in his breast. He bled a vivid shade, and she felt a warmth cascade down her shivering arms. Then little by little, his face and body turned ashen and crumbled and went into the ground—returned whence it came . . .

"I'm sorry," Hanabi whispered, eyes filling with tears and a new rain, for she had heard good things of the older one who now remained trapped in the younger one's memories; but stories were only stories . . .

For a few moments, she welcomed the rain shower. It washed away the blood, pearlescent in the last sunlight behind the hills. Her fingers, greased with the Reaper's blood, slipped around the hilt. It was done.

Hanabi rose up to her feet and began to sheath her sword—that's when the earth beneath her feet shook like disturbed waters; sludge, which had gone into the earth, bubbled up; and she saw his face in the black, smiling.

"I'm sorry," he mimicked her voice and lunged at her head. She dropped to a crouch as the deadly beak, which would have torn through her neck, swished above her head like a black blur.

She took a long leap towards the light again, but he followed. Her sword hand shot out sideways, away from the body, to deflect a coming blow aimed at her breast. The beak collided against the sword and sent devastating thrums through her bones. The impact knocked her sideways into the stones.

Her body spun in mid-air, her balance lost. Chakra pooled into her back to protect her vitals: upon impact, a strong vibration rang in her ears and two of her back-ribs cracked, unable to endure the force of the blow; but the beak was relentless as it flashed down horizontal to split her head in two. She skipped to the left, avoiding it by inches. Grit and stones flew into the air, and amidst the dust, rain, and mud, the Reaper grew hungry for her flesh.

Hanabi huffed. It was no use! E'en the chakra she had put around her blade had not dented its beak. Her body would shatter if it took a direct blow from the Reaper. Sun’s last yellow twinkled on the peak’s crest, and darkness began to spread behind her. Reapers whispered in strange tongues, in voices loud. Their wings beat in the darkness and churned the air like turbulent waters.

Hanabi had seconds to save her life before the throng of them overwhelmed her! So she locked her hands to the pommel and aimed the sword downwards, her eyes on the beast. Then she threw the sword at the tree; blind and hungry, the beast went rushing in the direction of vibrations and its beak went into the bark.

The sword swished past the tree and clanked against the big stone, its tip too weak to break it open. The beast struggled to pull its beak from the tree, but he had given Hanabi a long enough distraction to run towards the light. With great speed, she ran out of the advancing darkness, grabbing the sword as she went.

Noises still pursued her, but she fled the scene, her body battered with fear and fatigue. At last, sun showed the last of its sign, and dark spread its wings. Reapers sprang out of the ground, like flowers, and surrounded her. Her legs shook with mortal fear; but, at that moment, a woman crushed the boulder, and lights poured out over the beasts—and silent they went into the ground.

"Sakura-San!" Hanabi said in elation. She had survived the assault at the camp!

# # # # # #

**Part II**: A Shrine in Shambles

# # # # # #

Sakura sat on a piece of broken statue, her face a canvas of gloom. Hanabi beheld the softening light inside her eyes in the dance of flames in the hearth. Buddha statues stood, tall and quiet, round the temple, a sense of eternal goneness upon their features; in the dark that breasted light with courage, their countenances filled Hanabi with no confidence. They sat like this for so long, heeding sounds from outside that filled the air like an invasion. _Reapers!_

Sakura had left countless seals in her wake. It would take the eyeless beasts hours to locate their scents amidst the tempest of sounds, smells, and lights issued forth by the Fuin-Jutsu seals: they were a gift from her mentor when she breathed her last under the mountains’ shadow that grew heaviest for her to bear—she had perished in her arms, and Sakura had pressed her face into her breast to let loose cries that banished a bit of her lust for him that ran athwart her love for her mentor.

Her chakra had drained from her corpse and floated, upon wing-less wings, to reach the valley and become _him_; and Sakura had watched, eyes filling up with tears and adoration, as the last of her went away into the winds with her breaths. Carmilla, oh, sweet Carmilla. Her heart and body ached for him, and she longed to see the pulchritude of his form come into her vision, and she would pray and she would die—her soul had twisted in ecstasy, heart had resisted against lust in solitude.

"Sakura-San?" Hanabi said, unable to resist the urge to break the girl out of her dreams. The sound of her voice went along the walls like an echo, and then it vanished into the air, softly.

Sakura sat up straight with a jerk and looked at her, her face covered in the thinnest film of gleaming sweat, her countenance growing deathly pale in the light. Hanabi pitied her.

"Are you a'right?" she asked, and her voice created another soft echo in the quiet hall. Hushes flooded into the temple, only to die away into a comforting silence.

Sakura did not answer, but she nodded. Then she rose up and, with firm steps, walked to the natural basin, which was always kept full by a natural pouring from a clear stream. She leant over the basin and burst into a sudden flood of tears.

Hanabi rose up, eager to comfort her, but Sakura help up her hand, her palm facing out, and shook it. "I-I'm a'right!" she squeezed out the words between sobs and splashed her face with cold water—repeatedly.

"What happened?" Hanabi asked and approached her, her gait slow and cautious; she did not want to cause her any more distress. Grit and dirt crunched like a film of frozen winter-snow beneath her sandals. This place had fallen to neglect. No monk came to pray here: they had fled to gather at the stairs—Carmilla.

"Everyone died!" she said, her voice rough, and a new light flashed from her eyes—more tears that fell thickly down her cheeks in streams. "They came out of nowhere—Reapers! So many of 'em. They got 'em all, and all I could do was watch!" She broke into another pronounced sob that shook her whole frame this time and brutally washed her hands begrimed with tar—something like sludge.

Hanabi said nothing. Her gaze wandered the empty hall and the dark windows: the stone-floor was smooth and shimmered with a yellow-vapour light; fog blended with the dark in the deep cracks of the valley; from this far, she could barely see a thing.

Sakura turned around, still wringing her hands, face dripping with water. "I loved him—I loved him so much," she said as if she stood in the sacred seclusion of her own chamber, her courage giving way to distress. "All I ever wanted was him, but he hurt me—he never wanted me . . . oh, Kami, why?" She looked up at the ceiling and flowers vanished from her lips that trembled, and her eyes streamed out more sorrow her heart could not bear.

"Sakura-San . . . " Hanabi said, her voice softening against the whimpering, a terrible plight falling across her heart: she remembered Hinata's face, lighted by passions, when she would look at her love—his death banished the joy from her heart that shone through her eyes before when she looked upon him—always.

"I can't—I can't—" she stopped and went on sobbing where she had left off before, "I don't know what to do. I love him—I hate him—I . . . " Then she slumped down to the floor in exhaustion, her spirit battered, and rocked her knees together and apart in convulsive movements that made her shake.

Hanabi went to her and sat down by her side. "Sakura-San, we'll win. Don't worry," she assured her with a smile so soft that Sakura's tears stopped. She mopped her face clean with the back of her hand, and thrust her fingers into the hair that had formed thick clumps around her face.

"But the seals . . . ?" Sakura whispered and looked away in a dreamy haze that telegraphed love to her countenance. Sounds from Reaper’s throats passed out of hearing when the sun rose. She had fallen so quiet as the light surfed over her face like tides.

"The camp was a distraction to confuse him. The seals are safe with the other monks. They don't want him to become a Kami. They'll help us. We'll seal him when the moon rises. Don't worry," Hanabi said and clamped her hand on her shoulder that shivered beneath her touch.

Sakura looked at her, and Hanabi could see the words shining through her dull-green eyes, but she had closed her lips against their utterance. She gave another silent nod, heed-less of her deep weakness that had carved onto her heart her lust . . .

# # # # # #

In her mind, an eternal gloom rested; and Hanabi followed, slower in her wake, eyes upon the back of her head. She did not, could not fathom her love for the Lord in sleep—a pretty love that flowed from her eyes still.

_Ah, weeping girl in the grip of gloom_

_A weaver of thoughts in the fragile loom_

_Slow love that drips from thy cold lips_

_Sweet songs from thy heart's trips_

_The ghostly child that wails in the vacant womb_

_The clump of flesh that festers in the tomb_

She had not spoken a word; silence rested upon her lips as faithfully as morn. The silver globe had retreated behind the cosmic garment: gold walked in its domain and coloured the tire of ebbing tides. Gold travelled in her hairs, streaked the pink with a shade sublime, that Hanabi could not tell which colour they possessed.

A new morn broke out, and wind at the mountains' feet caved in and withered away to make way for the sweeter one from Carmilla that sung songs of that hallowed place; and in its sense-less roots was the vacancy filled by this new, name-less love. Ah, what wordless tunes, what wondrous undulations, and Carmilla's wind had become his spirit, sighing with the love that poured in hushed whispers from his lips . . . when the rest of him slept in the lush garth, lusty and young.

They walked in silence and heard whispers, shadows right at their heels; but the morning's light was mighty. They were quick to bleed into the open wounds of this earth that accepted their repeated intrusions: they had ravaged this maiden so much, and the seeds of their love had birthed a forest that rose towards the sky in insolent perversions, in a way they had never seen.

Their roots, serpentine and lithe, fed upon the fallen and sprouted flowers that expelled odours sweeter than ambrosia, thicker than blood. Her father, too, had gone deep into the earth. Had he risen as a flower, one of many that adorned boughs in the flush of eternal youth? She felt a throb ring in her heart, and she knew it to be true.

They passed beneath the arch of twisting boughs, walking against the wind that spoke with a different passion in its tongues, as sun approached the sky-cleaving bow: Lord was restless in his sleep. Did he dream, like all Men? The thought slowed her steps to an unhurried pace.

Hanabi had never thought of it much. What were the Lord's dreams to her? Fairytales to become tales of yore to frighten young children; but she, the women who walked in front of her, had said that he dreamt of the family he cherished, of the brother he loved, often.

Did he have a heart to dream a dream, to love a love, with blood-roots transporting throbs of his slumbering emotions to every root that shivered and glutted with love? A print of confusion strained Hanabi's brow. Did it matter that the Lord she loathed with all her heart had one of his own, too? It did—it did not. The matter was . . . strange.

As Hanabi walked to the rock-bound lake, fingers curled in rock-tight fists, she thought some more . . . thought of her father who never returned from the ground's grave, thought of the cousin who had perished in war’s ashes, thought of the tears that kept her sister's cheeks wet, always.

Hanabi's jaw tightened down and waves went through her skin in pulsating ripples. Zeal of anger, waxing in her flexing muscles, became a zeal for her sword. She would wield it, end him in his cradle borne of mother's lullabies, father's farewells, and brother's love.

She did not let her thoughts linger on him any longer and fixed her eyes upon the cool lake that still yawned with the stirrings of a new day. Wind sent combers rolling their way, and when she looked up, she saw the temple’s tapering roof in the fog.

It was quiet here, in this place. Hanabi spoke no words and neither did Sakura. She sat down and made a scoop of her hand and gulped down the clean water. Then she got to her feet and started walking to the trees interlocked in a silent struggle to gain the Lord's blessing—they would only sprout more flowers . . .

When they reached the stairs, the temple loomed tall and silent behind the fog that flowed like waves from the mountains. Stream had burst forth from the crevice in the sacred rock that sat in the garden. The priests had said that the Sage descended upon this place, in garments flowing, radiant and beautiful . . .

Yet that was before they abandoned this place and went scampering to cradle the new Sage in their arms. They had left all the teachings of _Ninshū_ behind. "The Lord has come," they had chanted in the light of the spring's sun that was just as beautiful and divine; and in their arms, they interred him to a lid-less grave till his new birth.

Hanabi emitted a sigh and fog broke away in bits before her face, eyes fixed to the shadows that slanted along the stairs: they were a little thick and . . . _sludge-like?_ Her heart jumped, and a tremble crossed the span of her frame to vibrate in her fingertips. _Reapers!_ She did not look to Sakura, did not waste another breath, and ran to the large wooden door.

A thick odour came to her from inside, and her hand went for her father’s sword, her grip tight. She heard Sakura's pounding steps behind her on the rough garden-stones, but she did not have time to look her way. She crashed against the door: it swung to the side and hit the wall with a deafening thud; and what greeted her stopped her heart: priests from west, murdered by Lord's priests!

They lay strewn about in pools of vivid lifeblood, garments smeared red. She could not see their faces in the dim shadows. There stood a few priests by the bodies, their hands clutching bloodied sword.

They cast one look her way and positioned their swords at their throats and sliced into their jugular veins. Blood went out as red feathers into the flooding sunlight that came down glittering from the roof. Passion spread and sprinkled on the white floor like spider lilies. Then, not a moment later, they thudded to the floor, whispering, eyes going back into their heads in death.

Her eyes darted to the right, and she saw one reaper go into the ground with the scroll she had come for. This shrine was in shambles, a grave of her allies.

"No!" Hanabi shouted, her hand holding the sword's wet pommel in a tighter grip, tears filling her eyes and spilling over, as though they were cups.

They had come for the scroll, and they had taken it; and when she looked to Sakura in desperation, she saw guilt and shame in her gaze . . .

# # # # # #

**Part III**: A Tomb in Autumn

# # # # # #

Of black and white his heart, she seeded it with plea’s colour. In her thoughts, if her tongue could utter, that arose from the deep she had created a realm of lust, a chamber of need. Her words, in thoughts, had risen to touch the grey and hard-feeling sky of his dreams. Was that so—it was not so.

And he slept fast, and unfeeling weather bred fear in her limbs; but want was a companion of hope, her spirit. It erased the custodian of doubt that barred her way with his sword. She would see him here, in this dream; go to him here, in this gleam. Eternal his thoughts, immortal his memories that galloped to the realm beyond her reach.

And in her dreams she cried, in waking she tried, to grasp the purple striped robes of a God. Aloof his edifice of beauty, cold his eyes of red, in her passions that bled from her womb; and she had seen him, eyes sombre, coming into her, a union that debased her spirit.

A dream? A swig? Who was to say for sure when she partook of the sweetness distilled of her well-held, well-dreamt, well-remembered reveries? It spread into her spirit, a vile disease, all black and white in glory. Going in and coming out, going in and coming out, going in and coming out—over and over again this wanton union she had coveted for so long.

O’, with speed he came on wings made from dews glittering into the gleam of her dreams, spreading and spreading, a union of black and white; and she partook of the colours of both, breathed from him, drank in from his ripeness, a corruption that was godly and divine; and days went by, nights sped away, and her dreams became his, her dreams struggling from her limbs—to be free, freed by his love.

A dark horizon in her vision, fringed with the Lord’s glory. A maiden, Carmilla, clothed in rainbow, a thousand hues against the sky’s gold—beautiful, eternal this place's memories. Why not this—why _not_ this? He had placed a cold globe over _this_ land that oozed brown, expelled decay; yet out of the rot rose his signs. Surely, this was love—this was divine?

And she wept and she crept and she slept in wait for the Revelation fitted for her spirit's growth. He would come from the high on wings of saffron—he would join with her and make love and drink in the ecstasy from her mortal coil . . . the only thing she could give.

Yet he did not come, and her spirit, in restless grief, had spilt secrets for his love. It had killed, maimed, bloodied for his love, for he ruled Carmilla, but he ruled her heart's domain more. _Mount and ride her till she squealed and laughed and spilled from wanton pleasures!_

Forlorn—guilty, so guilty her spirit that had tainted its matter by drawing his lesser mirage into her body till she had cried out in excitement, bled out the remnants of loyalty in breaths that did not hide his name—no, they announced it with fervour as she wriggled, struggled, trembled on the warm bed of Carmilla's spring Eternal!

Flowers had cushioned her back in which muscles moved with the fire of release; his seed empty in her womb, his organ’s taste honey in her mouth, his presence fury in her eyes; and he granted her what she had wished for—always. Bliss—bliss Eternal, for her flesh sung with the pleas of her spirit's tongue. Free. Free. Free!

_O’, Carmilla, take my soul, for blessed are those with hearts pure_ . . .

Sitting upon Heaven’s arch, he had flashed from the sky as he flew; and beneath his spreading wings of Light Eternal, a procession of Monks had taken its way across the lands to the trembling shores of _His_ heaven's bridge.

_For the Pure shall see the Lord!_

_On the bow of rainbow's bridge_

_He perched to overlook Carmilla's Godly ridge_.

And he wore unity’s colour, sun’s gold, that radiated bright in the first morn after the battle; so many red tints gleamed across the ground, reminders of his parting. He went away from her, left her distraught in grief and fear. For years, she had waited for him under the boughs that wore an Eternal green as their garb, her heart in lust’s waters, submerged.

And he had come at last as a mirage, asked of her to give him what he desired, and he would in return fulfill her wish—_One Wish!_ She had given him her heart, her spirit, her soul and told him of the union she coveted.

_Bless the Lord_ _!_

_Bless the Heaven_ _!_

_Bless the Sky_ _!_

_Take from me_

_And rip from me my spirit_ _!_

_Come in me_

_And find in me your heart_ _!_

_One day—some day_

_You shall know my love_ _!_

And he had done what her pleas spoke of; and she had done what he commanded of her. She was obedient in mannerisms, doing it in the name of love. Her heart's oceans, spilling from the crevices of her coil, told him of the desperation, of the devotion in her spirit that danced to the melodies from his tongue—always.

Into the Eternal petals he went, and the flower closed up to take him in for years; and she ached in his wake. He had forgotten her, and no matter what she did, she only felt him in her dreams, her pleasures a dream-haze, a dilution of her flesh's reality. It desired and it wanted and it craved for the trembles that travelled unchecked in her organic matter's apparatus. It wanted him to be _real!_ This unreal nature of his presence was tearing her apart.

Someday, Carmilla would throw open the gates for the Lord's to-be Bride, and she would become his—forever. So she waited and waited and waited . . .

# # # # # #

The halcyon days of Konoha's spring, trees grew in time and birthed flowers in time—nothing was ever out-of-place, nothing was ever un-natural. Hanabi, in the cradle of her mother's arms (milky and soft), remembered the breeze as it made tremble her layered Kimono.

She would carry her to the garden and gaze upon fish, small and bright, flurrying amidst the weeds in search of food. Sun had a strange way of being benign, kind, bright, glowing on her mother's arms and cheeks. Trees lovingly fed on its rays in hunger and sprouted Sakura flowers; and they lined the streets like gifts from Spring.

Hanabi told her of her stories these nights, often. Fear and suspicion bred darkly in her eyes, but Sakura's heart had borne so much that she cared so little for them. Mother? Child? A lovely thought. Hanabi could tell that they frightened Sakura . . .

Spring birthed her children, and they, too, came out to play. The wayward ones that left the sides of their mother got taken by the winds and perished soon—alone and deserted in the streets, trampled beneath well-shod Men. Had spring wept for her daughters, her sons? Did she court with Autumn's Reaper, kill her children in love? Did she ever weep for her sons? What a strange thought that had her mind wandering in places she did not want to wander.

_Spring came, all jubilant and fair_

_She forgot her dead children after a prayer_

Spring was like that. Summer was her new face, an affliction of her courtship with Autumn Prince; and he was radiant, beautiful in a manner that was un-natural. He killed her children, left them to bleed out their colours on the sun-soaked ground; and she devoted tears to their memories; and once their union was a promised affair, she chose death at his feet, heart joyous and gay—full of love in the month of May.

And she pleaded and let flow from her eyes her young heart's pleas. Pure and sorrowful they went, mapping her countenance in ways she never wished. And still he was cold, still he was bold in rejecting her heart, her love for him; yet she wept still, for that was all she knew.

And he had asked so much from her whilst she showed him her eyes' miseries in the spring's sun. Bright, crystal-bright, each teardrop—loving, ever-loving, each plea. She exhausted her throat, thrashing at the steps of his temple, amidst the Monks who remained prostrated in reverence, humbled and in love—more in love than her? No, her heart could bear the storm of their prayers no longer.

So she ran from Carmilla, ran from the twilight that darkened the mountain's cold breast. Its heart had gone to a state of slumbering, and his had, too. He left her behind, and this loneliness, of body and spirit, was a heavy song over her spirit, her heart.

She had borne much for him—where was his love? Hidden away, deep and secure, inside her womb. She expelled sludge made of dark, and borne of that one unholy union he had granted her after her many tears, in return for her wish, her children grew as adult men from Carmilla's ground: Reapers—she birthed Reapers!

And the sludge kept coming, going into the Tomb of Autumn that was this earth, with each cycle of menstruation. A reminder of her lust, a song of lamentation, her children grew beautiful, grew deadly—each a Reaper that killed men, women, and children who ventured into the woods, to fight or to flee towards safer lands beyond the hills. It was all the same . . .

Yet what was safer than a lover's arms? O’, how her love drove her mad, made her wild, had her in hysterics. She saw their countenances change, shift into the fine contours the older one once possessed. They were just as cruel, too; they cared not who they pinned at the ends of their crow-beaks—blind to faces, deaf to pleas, cold to touches, they were men of means!

Spring wept; she wept so hard; she wept often. Her heart ran fast, faster than ever, and Autumn's Prince, still sleeping, did not pay any heed to her whimpering. His children, who were truly his brothers from her womb, perished; but he brought them back to life to kill, kill, kill. Stubborn, like he was in his previous life before he fell to a state of sleeping, he did as he pleased.

She wanted them to stay dead, stay dreaming in the soil forever; but they kept rising from the earth, without a joy in their spirits, for that was what their father had sown into their hearts, a nature colder than winter's wails. They roamed the forest, pecking, hunting, loving in the name of what he stood for.

Few circled his sleeping place and stood round him, faces smooth and lovely. Did they love him? Did they feel adoration when they looked upon the man who created and re-created them in love? She did not know—she could not know. She had no milk in her breasts for them, no droplet that adorned the tips of her pink teats. Her milk, each drop an ocean of love, could never appease them!

What would she feed them? Love? She did not love them. She desired for them to leave, hide away into the deep of the earth, drink through the porous ground when rains would come—in spring? She was a mother most cruel—she had made peace with that.

For now, she travelled the winding stone-road to Konoha (a missive had come from Hanabi's home, and she was restless), a patch of green surrounded by her children's infestation. In the sun's un-kind light, they came in search of her bosom; and they would kill her in love . . . surely!

_O’, merry Children of Spring_

_Growing in the care of Autumn King_

_So hungry for the mother's milk_

_Hiding away in night's silk_

_To kill her was their wish_

_They ate ravenously from this land's dish!_

# # # # # #

**Part IV**: New Graves in Soils

# # # # # #

The clop of teeming mourners' clogs—that was the sound of bad things on the horizon. They marched along, humming hymns and sighing sighs, black strokes against a brown street chocked with mud, sludge, autumn leaves; rains had not been kind to this place, like they were to Carmilla.

When the Lord assigned you a calling, you took it; you did not refuse it; you embraced it; you cherished it for that was all you knew—that was what you were born to do.

She had to take it back whence it came, return his signs to his dwelling place. Her heart wept; her eyes, silent, bespeaking a coldness that was best suited to loners without flesh and blood. And was it not so for her now, too? It was—it truly was.

It was night when Hanabi had gone away to re-unite with her fragile medic; and Hinata, alone and desperate, went into the bowels of the forest deep. Seduced by whispers of Naruto's voice, she stepped into the darks. Men screamed and ran after her into danger’s mouth, with haunting barks.

And they saw Naruto's voice in the mouth of the devious Reaper: what a riot of duality? Then, when her senses came to in a mind betrayed by body's grief, she darted towards the illuminated bounds of her Dear Leaf. Just a step too short; just a step too late—its beak ripped through her spinal cord whilst she fled for her life.

Blood gushed and rushed from her splintered spine: the Reaper's beak created a hole so big that her innards spilt out the back; she could not scream; she could not run; she could not walk. Crumpled to the ground amidst the trembling black murder of Reapers, she lay prone; and they gripped her long hair and pecked into her flesh over and over again, drawing out the beaks and whatever came with them; and by the time the pursuing men alighted the area with Chakra-made fires to drive away the fear-apparelled monsters (with faces pretty) into the earth’s deep, the seducer had consumed all of her limbs with his brethren in arms. The villagers only managed to save a face twisted in a telling terror of pain and a lump of misshapen and bloody breast, which they could not devour in hurry!

The Men returned with tears in their eyes and cries in their bosoms; they cleaned blood off her face and breast and closed her eyes. Hanabi interred her into the bosom of this land. She did not want her to become ash and dust—sometimes, you needed more than memories to survive . . . (a gravestone was a place you could see and love, a mark of your kin's eternal dwelling.)

When Hanabi was little, she looked at the darkness through her fingers and was frightened of the tricks darkness played on her still-maturing mind: black-clothed crones jumping behind houses to catch children; smiling faces framed well between trees; ghosting children singing through wind, calling out to her . . .

How quickly people grew up, but most never left the fear behind—that uneasy sensation of a phantom hand on the shoulder in the night forest's wilderness; ghosts out for Men's souls; beasts who prowled and waited in burrows. Man was a creature of fear: it made his life, made him who he was; made a woman from girl and man from boy.

Hanabi's eyes could not drink sleep to satisfy their thirst. The men said it was good to catch winks with your friend and family; but she questioned the loyalty of former and sorely missed the latter. She stopped her tears when she lay her sister into the grave; now, standing upon the smooth earth broken by rain droplets, her mind was made anew: she would destroy him—even if it meant her own destruction!

The villagers could not stop the coming tides of Reapers from hurtling across Konoha. The monks left a curlicued symbol by carving it into the thick wooden gate that was the threshold of their peace! This place was tainted. Cursed. Lost. Soon, they would breach the walls, kill in their sleeping brother's name, maim all Men to their fill!

"I'm sorry," Sakura spoke, standing under the transformative gleam of _this_ setting sun. Her lips, poor pink and chapped, told half-truths and new-lies. Hanabi did not know whom to believe, but Sakura was the last thread of her going sanity. If Hanabi did not trust her, who would? It was mercy Hanabi chose to give her. It was all right—she was forgiven.

"I—" she stopped, and she stopped these days, often. Shielding her face with her hand, she blinked as rain fell softly and slowly through Autumn's thick and tedious air choked up with death. Her eyes changed shades, going from grassy green to liquid green in seconds. She was weeping.

Hanabi wore everyday clothes with a narrow obi. She bundled up her hair with only one hairpin. This was not the evening for formalities. He had rung the greatest clarion bell from the beating breast of Carmilla, and its crashing toll dented the fear in her heart and left wrath as a lasting consequence.

"I'm going to Carmilla!" Hanabi said and rolled her tongue over her lips, robbed of their delicate nature in grief and toil.

"Now?" Sakura questioned, heart singing in her eyes. "Don't go so soon. They might come back!"

"So what—do you want to die here like a rat? We're good as dead here, anyway!" Hanabi said by looking at Sakura in the eyes; and she saw nothing but resignation there.

Sakura fell silent, looking down to sigh at the bumps by her feet, upon which flowers bobbed in glee: Hinata shared this earth with many that perished before her. Sasuke, her beloved, had not been kind to her brethren. She gave him children, his brother's imitations, yet he was not satisfied in dreams: he wanted them all to perish in return for the cruelty they showed to his darling brother and his long-dead kin. She would have to go there, talk to him, make him grant them all forgiveness . . .

With such a strong thought, face brightening with a going yellow and coming smile, Sakura draped an arm around the shoulder of the shorter girl. She looked ahead at the mounds that rain struck with kindness; and they were stagnant like the dead ocean's waves, frozen in place to turn into a welcoming grave. Someday, she may end up deep in there, too . . .

"I'll go with you," Sakura whispered and wiped a hand across her wet face. "I don't get frightened by the sight of guts, torn skin, and broken bodies."

"This scroll is our last hope—" Hanabi stopped and looked up at her, "—we might not come back." And the glossy whiteness of her large eyes reflected the teeth of gravestones and shades of dusk's farewells—her face sober, hiding anguish Sakura knew all too well; yet she only smiled, her heart made for good this time . . .

# # # # # #

**Final Part**: When Gods Rise!

# # # # # #

When Hanabi and Sakura took their way across Konoha's deserted streets, dawn was beginning to blossom across the sky's ever-expanding landscape; everything was bright and yellow and lovely: flowers bloomed from soil, smiling.

Women who rose from bed looked out from the second floors upon them and the yellows bleeding into streamlets on the stone-road of this village. Street vendors began to set-up shops to sell food and other merchandise: this made the streets narrower as the sprawling shops spilt into the streets.

The two women did not stop, walking swiftly towards the gate that lay wide-open. Four guards stood by the gate and night's vanishing presence; and when their eyes fell upon them, they did not make any movements to stop them. They had suffered many losses, too many. The old man who stood dignified had buried his only child, a young man of twenty that had come into this world after many tireless prayers and tearful pleas, three days ago—and for what? This village was doomed: _God_ was coming! It was no use denying it prayers. He had his heart made—many had overnight.

And they would bow before the God when He would rise beautiful and immaculate upon eagle wings—up, straight up, till He met the domain of sun and became sun for all; with wings folding and unfolding, long and luminous over peaks of old. His temple, a sacred house of Lord, would welcome them, its sturdy and welcoming gates wide-open, illuminated by glancing morning-lights eternal.

Monks would speak in voices divine for all ears; and air would ring, flowers would sing, hearts would bring unto them His whispers hallowed—for God resided in _all_ realms, and he was closer to hearts than jugular veins that throbbed fully with blood. There was no love deeper than God's—no mountain higher than His might! Man would submit, love, perish in _His_ shadow that would envelop this world in its power for eternity!

They passed through the gate that stood as a visible partition between the forest beyond and the rising village; and as soon as they stepped foot on the land that possessed encroaching elements from the Divine, they felt the draw of Carmilla today—and it was strong and soul-consuming and fragrant. The air was _singing!_

Hanabi closed her eyes and felt the divine air hit into her body and breach her soul, going in deep to touch her more tenderly than a lover ever could. What was this . . ._ feeling?_ She could not say, but she felt it deeply than ever. Strong fragrances carved themselves into the air's undulating waves. He was coming—God was rising!

She leant her head back, black hair flowing thickly from her head in autumn's breeze which was greater and sweeter than spring's, thinking: she had fallen deeply in _love!_ When she opened her eyes, chakra became visible like dispersed crystals in air, blinking and glimpsing to the music of the lands beyond—Carmilla called them all to its threshold now! Oh, love, all love she had in her bosom—all anger in her soul; she would love him and she would kill _him_ and she would miss _Him_—in tears . . .

And she glided away from the village's side, running with all her might, weeping with all her heart, hating with all her spirit. Love—love—love! The God had called to her, His whispers going, like dancers flowing, from the yellow-end of the sky to its brighter end!

The shores where villagers fished for small fish on slowing evening tides lay deserted, their waves quiet and veiled by lights. All joys lay elsewhere. What was left here but to gaze upon dirt and sand? Ah, yes, to cast the love-filling eye upon God was its own reward, and eternal would be the love from His bosom! And they would perish by His feet, with reds of their loves as gifts of souls suffering from spirits' poverty, with eyes sighing like tongues in raptures of Divinity! Amen! Amen! Amen!

Hanabi did not hear the beat of feet behind her back, her heart crazed, mad with love. His coming aroused in her what she had never felt: he was what he was, an eternity behind the veil crossing bright between skies that lived on forever and ever, a love most divine and lovely; and she would end it all by His feet, eyes weeping like they had never wept before!

_Ah, Lord, hear my love—hear me, my love__!_ she prayed and hoped and wished he had heard before _He_ came from the womb's shell that was holier than the holiest conception of this world's start; and this, too, was a new start, a new love, a new divinity for all!

Hanabi squeezed her eyes, not caring of the tears that came without end. Soon, when her tears turned to dusts, she would cry red, her unfathomed heart unknowing; but that was love! And she had loved him, always; and she ran and she kept running and kept weeping without rest, wishing for _His_ mercy. The world around her squeezed away into balls of colours forgotten; yet her heart existed in Carmilla before eternity was made to live out here—all over again!

Hanabi did not know when she had arrived into the valley. Had it moved? She did not understand; and her heart was bursting to see Him now. He would know of her love, or she would perish praying:

_O’, love me—kiss me, my Lord! Make my soul sing songs for you—just you—only you_ _! O’, let me love you, for my love longs to match yours—fathomless its domain! Is this your heaven? Let me in—let me live—let me love! Forgive my sins—be mine . . . _

She ran through groves that spread out like a burst of colours as far as her eyes could see—a continuous land for love. Flowers grew inside shades of tender trees and regal Reapers: they stood silent, heads bowed, eyes open and black; their hearts dreamt of days to come.

Sakura ran ahead, her feet steadier than hers. In her hand was the scroll meant to thwart His coming. Deep inside the heart, Hanabi did not want it to work for the haze of His loving love had blinded her senses. Just a little piece of her protested now, and she felt debased that it existed in her. _Filth_—what would the Lord say? Surely, He was forgiving, endlessly loving. And she smiled like she had never smiled before, eyes shining brighter than the sun!

Monks prostrated across the sun-soaked fields—minstrels of love and song, singing of divinity for too long. They sat bowed by the stairs that glowed with a magnificence that dimmed the sun. And she saw nothing but the white and yellow that issued forth from the temple: God had eaten well from this land; its thirst was quenched; its hunger, sated!

"Sasuke-Kun!" Sakura screamed, running up the stairs—Hanabi was at her heels, her sword out and held aloft. It was instinct that made her draw her weapon; she did not want to displease her God; she did not.

_At last_, they both stopped when the loves which filled their veins up burnt brighter at His coming; and _He_ came at last from a ripping womb and bursting spray of lights—each droplet brighter than moon, more precious than stone. Oh, and he was beautiful! And at His sight, they crumpled to their knees, with bodies which trembled in agonies of pain and love.

Hanabi's hand dropped the sword; she interlaced her fingers in prayers; she wept red this time; she watched as monks fell down one by one, drained of life and blood; she feared and loved _Him_ in equals measures. By her side, Sakura took out the scroll and spread it on the ground.

"Sasuke—Sasuke-Kun—stop!" Sakura screamed again. Then she bled her thumb and spread it across the scroll—but nothing happened. With eyes harbouring terror, Sakura saw the inks relinquish the chakra, drop by drop, till they became words on the scroll—just words without an essence.

"It—it's not working—" she stopped and looked at Hanabi, "—it's not working!" Hanabi did not reply and returned her eyes to the God that grew taller and mightier whilst he freed himself from the womb inside the vivid life-bloods of His monks: they had come to lay down their lives to feed him—one last time!

And it hit Sakura, at last: this was never going to work! Fool, what a fool she had been. He had tricked her! “You tricked me! Fuck you!” she snarled, yet The Lord did not cast a loving eye upon her whilst she screamed harrowing screams in terror; and from him came a burst of feathers as soft as dove's, as sharp as swords; and they tore through her heart without a hint of Man's mercy; and right before Hanabi's eyes, Sakura crumbled away like morning dust . . .

His wings spread wider and wider till the temple walls could not contain them. Two feathers crossed Hanabi's throat and cut it deep. Gushing passion, she fell onto her side, and the whole world spun in a circle, her tongue still moving with a final breath too sweet to let go of: "I-I—love—l-love _you_ . . . " And a noise of crashing stones was in her ears, dying a dying death.

Hanabi's eyes kept watching when He burst through the temple's roof amidst songs and sons—His wings like broken moon and sun, shy and envious the luminaries that they ceased to exist in the lights that dripped from His body; and everywhere lights fell, bright like stars of night skies.

The marriage of this valley with God's love had made a temple of it—hallowed be His name! And He sat upon the cliff and looked up at the Heaven that wept in His absence, with a Ringed-Sharingan on his forehead—mark of _Gods__!_

And even as she lay dying in blood, she loved him; His wings that swept skies and eyes; His hairs amidst which stars crossed like vines; His eyes that opened and closed with love in His face that was loveliest even in death . . .

_Dearest, love thyself: Love the Lord more_.

_Amen! Amen! Amen!_

# # # # # #

**Epilogue**: Carmilla!

# # # # # #

Bright eyed and star-haired, God sat atop the old mountain and slept with open eyes, his gaze fixed in a dream-state upon the skies: His dreams, infinite; His presence, eternal; His sensations, cosmic—un-real and real and reality unbound. He sat sleeping and waking in turns; a flower that thrived skyward, sitting proudly and growing in ecstasy; His shroud heavenly; His perch fringed delicately by mist and musk; and light and lightning were His raiment.

From his feet that touched Carmilla's soil grew flowers that flowered the land. They sowed the soil with roots deeper than the trees' roots till everything intermingled and became his extension and sang in unison with the breaths he took: He smiled and the land smiled; He shook and the land shook; He exhaled and the world sighed in rapturous melodies, soothing to all hearts.

Wind, callous-handed and coarsened from many sun-beaten days of summer and cold-begotten nights of winter, touched the glowing God's body and became his breath. And Men worshipped him whilst they lay sleeping, stood waking; their eyes swallowing tears and dreaming securely beneath the lids.

There was no imperfection to be discovered on His body. God was perfect, present and visible in all manner of creatures: He shined in eyes, burnt in hearts, galloped in veins—unbridled, a primal energy, dearest to all.

They came from all corners of the world, singing hymns and carrying hopes and flowers, eyes lowered in prayers, hands joined in adoration. None would leave here without casting his eyes, in which existed a love man had never bestowed upon kin and wife, upon his God and His blessings!

They saw Him in spaces between trees singing, between His birthed sons' and re-birthed clan's white faces that jutted from bodies wrapped in black; and each body that perished in His love left behind a remnant flower, light-tipped and lingering, song-soaked and smiling. Hanabi had grown into a wild blue one by the forgotten, broken temple-stones. In death, she glimmered and sung! He had not forgotten her; so she stayed rooted inside the shallow and red-marked cut in the ground, cherishing the notion of joining with the love inside His bosom. This groove was no better than a grave—without visitors!

A pink one shuddered in shadows, still and quiet amidst grit and dust, gloomy and cloven to the ever-present splendour of His fear . . .

# # # # # #

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> EN: With this, Carmilla's story has reached its end. The ending utilises a diluted form of Theological Divine Love that's fairly common across orthodox religions; and whilst Sasuke's Godhood isn't necessarily a complete personification of the idea of Infinity (or eternity), he isn't that far off from the said concept, either; hence, every sensation he unleashes is very Cosmic by nature, and Man isn't a cosmic creature, which is why the effects have been . . . quite devastating.
> 
> I hope you all had as much fun reading the story as I had writing it.
> 
> Regards.


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